SS 18: Shark Skin Suite: A Novel (24 page)

Chapter
THIRTY-SIX

THE NEXT MORNING

T
wo early birds sat alone in the silent courtroom.

“We’ve got the momentum back,” said Ziggy. “I’m starting to think we’re actually going to win this thing.”

“Brook really deserves this,” said Serge.

They high-fived.

The doors in the back of the courtroom opened.

“Brook!” said Serge.

Brook got a funny look on her face. Then she ran back out the door.

Serge turned to Ziggy. “Something I said?”

Ziggy shook his head. “Nerves. They should charge her rent for that bathroom stall.”

Brook sat indisposed in the tiny space. A personal pep talk. “Get it together, girl. This is the big day. You’re in the homestretch now . . .”

Footsteps from the sink. “Brook? Is that you in there?”

Brook thinking,
What’s a man’s voice doing in the women’s room? It’s not Serge or Ziggy.
“Who’s out there?”

“I have something for you.”

A legal-sized envelope slid under the stall’s door. Footsteps ran away.

Brook reached down and picked it up, removing photos and a typed letter. As she read: “Oh, dear God, this isn’t happening. How did they find out?” Her stomach became a free-falling elevator. She would be spending some extra time this morning familiarizing herself with the porcelain.

Back in the courtroom: “This is getting exciting,” said Ziggy. “What can that executive possibly say today to dig himself out of that hole Brook put him in?”

The doors opened again. “Brook,” said Serge. “You’re all flushed. Let me get you a chair.”

“I’m fine.” She steadied herself with the edge of the table and eased down into a seat. “Just some bad shrimp I got last night.”

The judge and jury came in. The defense called Heinrich Neff back to the stand.

“Concerning these so-called straw buyers. Were you at all aware?”

“Absolutely not,” said Neff. “If I’d had even the slightest notion, I would have immediately called authorities.”

“And those appraisers who set high prices?”

“We don’t use them anymore,” said Neff. “Some unethical appraisers are always trying to drum up business by qualifying unrealistic amounts for loans. As soon as we saw the foreclosure rate, we dismissed them . . .”

“Brook,” Ziggy whispered. “Why aren’t you objecting?”

She just sat dazed.

“You look like you’re feeling worse than you’re letting on,” said Serge. “Why don’t we have Ziggy ask for a recess?”

“No, I’ll be okay . . .”

The defense called more Consolidated officers to the stand, who explained in highly technical obfuscation why everything was on the up-and-up. They were polished and handsome and scoring points.

“It was our duty to the shareholders, many of whom are senior citizens with our stock in their retirement portfolios, who depend on us to put those houses back on the market and get the highest price.”

The judge looked toward Brook. “Cross-examination?”

She shook her head again.

And so it went, through the rest of the morning and into the afternoon. The defense systematically chipping away at everything Brook had constructed the day before.

The defense finished with another witness. The judge looked toward the plaintiffs’ table again with skepticism.

“No questions,” Brook said in a vacuum of energy.

“Brook,” said Ziggy. “You haven’t cross-examined a single witness today.”

She sat.

Ziggy stood. “I request a recess.”

“Why?”

“Medical.”

The judge didn’t need to be told something wasn’t right, and he didn’t need any more details. “We’re in recess.”

They left the courtroom, and Brook immediately ran to the restroom.

Ziggy and Serge waited outside and knocked. “You okay in there?” They pressed ears to the door. Water running.

“Something’s wrong,” said Ziggy.

“And I don’t think it’s her regular nerves about the trial,” said Serge.

The door finally opened and the guys quickly pulled their ears away. Brook’s face still dripped from splashing at the sink. She silently led them out of the courthouse and toward her motel room. At the corner of Southard Street, she glanced back. A man in an aqua golf shirt looked up from a newspaper, then down. Brook’s heart raced. She picked up the pace, looking around every ten yards.

They reached the Southern Cross Hotel. “I think I need to be with Brook awhile,” Serge told Ziggy. “Can you check on Coleman back in our place and make sure he isn’t tearing it up?”

“You got it.”

At the top of the stairs, Brook pulled Serge into her room and quickly slammed the dead bolt. Then she hugged him with the biggest squeeze. His arms slowly wrapped around her in a light embrace.

“I know you’re happy to see me,” said Serge. “But what’s really going on?”

“I think I’m being followed.”

“I picked up on that.” Serge calmly caressed her hair. “But I didn’t see anyone. And I’m pretty good at that sort of thing.”

“He had a golf shirt and was reading a newspaper.”

“Where?”

“Outside the courthouse.”

“Did you see him anywhere else on the way back to the motel?”

“No, but I saw him yesterday.” Brook burrowed her face into his shoulder. “Also reading a newspaper. Different shirt.”

“Brook, people have daily routines.” Serge held her out by the arms. “It’s all in your head.”

“Is this in my head?” She opened her briefcase and handed Serge the legal envelope.

He read the contents. “You’re being blackmailed?”

“It’s not just disbarment—I’ll go to jail.”

“The guy in the golf shirt?”

She shook her head. “I think it’s a different guy.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Serge.

“Just look.”

Serge pulled a photo from the envelope. A battered woman’s face, barely recognizable as Brook’s. “So it’s the dude who you paid to beat you up? Now it all makes sense.”

“Bones’s note says he saw my name in the newspaper from the trial.”

“Bones?”

“Who knows what his real name is.” Brook poured herself a glass of water from the bathroom tap and sat down. “Wants fifty thousand or he’ll call in an anonymous tip with all the details.”

“First thing: Just relax,” said Serge. “I’ll get my arms around this and it’ll all be fine.”

“What’s your plan? He says he’ll only meet with me, and if he even suspects anyone else—”

“Like I said, just relax.”

RAMROD KEY

Two concrete ovals in the middle of the parking lot said the building used to be a gas station. Painted over the garage doors: P
ARADISE
R
EALTY
.

Inside, on the walls where the fan belts and wiper blades used to hang, were glossy photos of cozy little Keys abodes.
Summerland Key, $189K; Sugarloaf, $179K; Boca Chica, $199K.
All the properties featured palms, poincianas and other tropical landscaping strategically placed to create the illusion that these were not mobile homes.

The company’s sole agent sat behind a desk. There was a watercooler, an empty box of doughnuts and a chew toy for an unseen dog. On the customer side of the desk sat a man in a black guayabera with yellow palm trees. “You also rent?”

The agent nodded. “Or rent to own. It’s a good deal.” It wasn’t.

The customer pointed at one of the photos on the wall. “I’d like to rent that trailer.”

“We prefer the term ‘manufactured living.’ ”

“It’s for my nephew. He’s getting out of the service in a few weeks. How much?”

“Eight hundred a month, first and last and another for damage deposit.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

“But you do realize that since you’ll be signing for it, you’re the responsible party.”

“No problem.”

The agent pulled rental forms from a drawer and clicked a pen. “When would you like to start the lease?”

“Now. If I could get the keys today.”

The agent raised his head. “But you said he isn’t getting out for a few weeks.”

“I’d like to spruce up the place for his welcome home.”

“That’s very nice,” said the agent. “The only problem is we need to wait for the rent and deposit checks to clear.”

The customer pulled a roll from his pocket. “Cash clear faster?”

The agent’s eyes bulged at the size of the wad. “As long as you have a valid driver’s license.”

“That I do.” He handed over a non-valid license with a fake name.

“Then just sign here and here and initial by these three
X’
s.” The agent stood up and arched his back to get out a crick. “I’ll just make some copies and get the keys.”

A half hour later, bells jingled at the front door of Paradise Pawn & Laundry.

The owner arrived behind the counter and wiped soapsuds off his hands. “Can I help you with anything?”

The customer’s eyes were up on the shelves. Both arms began pointing. “Those TVs, a few laptops, silverware, the video games, clock radios, electric drills, the popcorn machine, the bullhorn, and that whole shelf of microwaves.”

The owner chuckled. “What are going to do, open your own pawnshop?”

“Something like that,” said a man in a black guayabera. “You give volume discounts?”

The owner’s mouth became a straight line. “You’re actually serious?”

The guayabera pulled the roll from his pocket. “Does this look like a punch line?”

The owner took a deep breath. “In that case, I can put a great package together for five thousand.”

“Throw in the trombone and it’s a deal.”

Chapter
THIRTY-SEVEN

MILE MARKER 26

S
trands of cirrus clouds formed crimson streaks as the sun set over the gulf. Headlights came on in a chain that traced the Overseas Highway. A ’76 Cobra crested the bridge to Little Torch Key.

“Where are we going?” asked Brook.

“He wants you to meet at his motel?”

“Right,” said Brook. “But you’re not seriously thinking of going there?”

Serge shook his head. “There’s a place across the street with a perfect view of where he’s staying.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Not pay blackmail, for one thing.” Serge turned into a narrow parking lot that ran between two rows of tiny stucco villas. They checked in and sat across from each other on the pair of beds.

“But I already have a motel room in Key West,” said Brook. “I’m simultaneously staying at two places?”

“I’ve done it a million times,” said Serge. “And from here forward, you’re going to have to do exactly as I say without any questions, because there might not be time. I really wanted to leave you in Key West, but if you were being followed, this could be a ruse to lure me away from you. You’re staying on my hip . . . until I make my move. Then we’ll find out where this leads.”

“What are you talking about? It leads to the guy who beat me.”

“Brook, he’s only asking for fifty K, when how many millions are riding on this trial?”

“You’re not thinking the defense put him up to this,” said Brook. “Even if they did want to intimidate me, they’d never get involved with a character like that, because he could just turn around and blackmail
them
.”

“The scenario’s wide open until I get him to answer a few questions.”

“He’s just going to spill everything to you?” She noticed the bullets in Serge’s hand as he loaded a .380 automatic. “Oh.”

“Don’t leave the room.” He went to the door. “And don’t open unless you’re absolutely sure it’s me.”

“What about staying on your hip?”

“I’m just going to the edge of the parking lot for recon of his place across the way.” He turned around in the door. “But your room here will never be out of my view.
When Polly’s in trouble, I am not slow!
. . .”

The door closed. Brook turned on the TV and surfed local news. Crime, crime, more crime, torso found in the mangroves. Head found in the salt flats. She turned off the tube. Her heart rate began coming down. She trusted Serge.

The door burst open and she jumped. “He’s on the move! Get in the car!”

The Cobra raced east until they finally spotted an old Pinto several cars ahead. Serge let off the gas as they hit Big Pine Key.

“Traffic’s stacking up,” said Brook. “You’re losing him.”

“I know,” said Serge. “As soon as you come off the bridge over the channel, it’s the endangered Key-deer zone, which drops to thirty-five miles an hour at night. All these good citizens are living up to the social code, but that asshole’s whipping around them like a maniac.”

Brook pointed ahead to the island’s only traffic light. “He’s turning north.”

“I see it. But it will take forever to get up there behind all these cars.” Serge smacked the dashboard in frustration. “Now the light’s changing, and it’s a long one.”

Serge eased up behind the line of vehicles waiting for a green light to turn onto Wilder Boulevard. “The good news is the island just goes back and stops at the water. There’s no way out except returning to the Overseas Highway. His end destination is somewhere up there.”

“If this is the only way out, then why don’t we just wait here for him?” asked Brook.

“I said this
highway
is the only way out, but there are a number of other roads on the island that connect back to it.” Serge watched the light turn green, then clenched his teeth as a number of drivers took their time making the left turn. He began banging his forehead on the steering wheel.

“Serge,” said Brook. “It’s just the coffee.”

“I hate it when other drivers make the left turn super slow with big gaps, as if they’re the only person trying to catch the light. Me? Total courtesy. I pretend the guy behind me is on the same team and it’s my mission to get him through the light as well, like a fullback blocking in the red zone. I often wave them on with my arm out the window. ‘Come on, you can make it! There’s plenty of time!’ Sometimes there is; other times not so much. But I’ve done my job.”

“Serge, the light’s been yellow a long time,” said Brook. “And there’s a cop parked on the corner.”

“And that fucker left three car lengths in front of him.” Serge screeched up to red and sulked. “He’ll never be a fullback.”

“Serge, try to focus.” Brook massaged the back of his neck. “We need to find the guy in the Pinto.”

“Don’t worry. I know the island and we’ll do a slow grid search through the neighborhoods.”

They turned past the grocery store onto a long isolated stretch of road.

Serge pointed northwest. “We’ll try to flush him—”

Crash
.

Glass exploded as the rear window blew out. Serge checked the side mirror and noticed a black Camaro barreling down on them.

“Someone’s shooting!” yelled Brook. “Is it him?”

“No, my wife.”

Bullets whizzing by the car.

“That’s the woman you said you were married to?”

Serge gestured back at the shattered glass. “If you call that marriage.”

A last bang. “Excellent,” said Serge. “She’s out of bullets.”

The Cobra skidded to a stop.

“What the hell are you doing?” said Brook.

“Just hand me what’s in the glove compartment.”

Serge jumped from his car and promptly shot out one of the Camaro’s tires. “Molly, can you please sign these papers? I need to move on.”

“I’m not signing any divorce papers,” said the redhead. “I think we should get back together and give it another try.”

“Molly, stop reloading and listen: We gave it more than a fair shot.”

“You don’t love me anymore?”

Serge shrugged. “All your shooting. A guy needs to relax when he comes home from work.”

“I also have my needs. I slaved to keep a clean house, but Coleman always fucked up our guest towels.”

“That’s another thing my married friends mentioned: No history is too ancient.”

“You never listen!” snapped Molly. “They were the guest towels!”

“Coleman
was
a guest.”

“What don’t you understand about the guest towels?”

“My ignorance is apparently total on this one.”

“I could never have nice things.” She clicked the chamber closed and began raising the gun.

Serge snatched the barrel, flinging it into the woods. Molly ran after the weapon and Serge bolted for the car.

Brook stared in shock. “What’s all that gunfire about?”

Serge stuffed unsigned papers in the glove compartment. “Bathroom linen.”

T
he Cobra scoured the mangrove country and took the Bogie Channel Bridge to No Name Key all the way to the ferry dock ruins. On the return trip he checked in with his eyes and ears at the Old Wooden Bridge Fishing Camp office and the No Name Pub, then made a last sweep past Blue Hole nature preserve before heading back to the Overseas Highway.

“Can’t understand where he could have gone to.” Serge slowed as a small deer crossed the road. “I switchbacked east and west as I worked my way north on the island like I was popping a pimple.”

“What do we do now?”

“Return to our cottage and keep an eye out.”

Fifteen minutes later, they rolled into the parking lot. “Remember to stay hidden,” said Serge. “He knows what you look like, but I’m free to keep surveillance.”

He unlocked the door and they stepped inside. A crinkly sound under their feet. He flicked on the light. “What the hell? Where’d all this plastic sheeting on the floor come from?”

Serge immediately recognized the source of the feeling he’d just gotten in the middle of his back.

“Don’t try anything funny,” said the man, poking Serge with the gun. “Both of you move to the middle of the room nice and slow.”

The floor crackled as they walked past the dresser.

“Now stop and turn around.” The man grinned lasciviously at Brook. “Bet you didn’t expect to see me again.”

“Look,” said Serge. “There’s no need for the gun. We were getting together your fifty thousand.”

“No, you weren’t,” said Bones. “You were supposed to be at my motel room an hour ago. Instead you followed me up to Big Pine and back. You didn’t think I’d simply plant myself in that room all fat and happy like a sitting duck?”

“So you expected us to do recon on your motel, and secretly positioned yourself until we revealed our location? Then you took us on that wild-goose chase of a drive up the islands in order to beat us back to
our
room?” Serge snapped his fingers and winced. “The old double-reverse surveillance sting. Should have known.”

Bones raised his gun. “Say your prayers.”

“Whoa!” said Serge. “Aren’t you being a little hasty? You’re going to shoot us just because we’re late with the fifty G’s?”

Bones shook his head. “I already have the fifty thousand. Plus a bonus when I’m done.”

“Wait, what?” said Serge.

“You actually thought this was about blackmail?” said Bones. “That was just the bait—it was a hit all the way. Apparently a lot of money is riding on her trial, and she’s a much better lawyer than anyone expected. So someone decided to take her off the case. And you, fella, are at the wrong place at the wrong time.” He gave Brook an expression of disapproval. “You really shouldn’t have stolen their confidential files. That’s just not right.”

Serge was careful to keep his eyes straight ahead as he used peripheral vision to gauge the distance to the open thermos of coffee on the dresser. “Hold on! I got a great story . . .”

“No use trying to stall.”

“Really, it’s an excellent Florida legal tale, totally true,” said Serge. “This guy tried to frame someone for murder by sticking a tiny tape recorder in his jacket pocket and going to the observation deck atop the La Concha in Key West. He calls out the name of someone who wasn’t there and says, ‘Please don’t throw me off the roof!’ Then he jumped off the roof. Didn’t work, but have to give him credit for commitment.”

“Actually that’s not a bad story,” said Bones.

“Think so?” said Serge. “Then I got a million of ’em. Like the drunk driver near Duval who handed the police officer a taco instead of his license—”

“Shut up! I’m late for dinner, so it’s time for good-byes.” He looked over at Brook. “I hate to do this because you can take a beating better than most men. So I’ll give you the courtesy of shooting him first. Then you might want to close your eyes.”

“Fuck you,” said Brook. “I’m not going to let you shoot me like a coward. These eyes will be staring straight into your sorry soul.”

“Suit yourself.”

Serge used the momentary distraction to move like lightning, grabbing the thermos and splashing the contents in Bones’s eyes.

Bones looked mildly annoyed as brown drops trickled down his cheeks.

“Damn,” said Serge. “It got cold.”

“Changed my mind,” said Bones. “I get the drift you’re somewhat fond of Brook, so I’m shooting
her
first, just to piss you off.”

In less than a nanosecond, Serge’s brain rampaged through all possible options. Bones aimed his pistol just as Serge sifted the alternatives down to the only one left: He jumped in front of Brook as a human shield.

Bang
.

Serge gritted his teeth as he reflexively jerked back like taking a punch in the gut. A second later he opened his eyes and stared curiously down at himself—then up at Bones, whose expression seemed off-center before he toppled facedown on the plastic sheeting.

“What just happened?” asked Brook.

Serge stared at a hole in the cottage’s front window. “Stay here.” He grabbed his own gun and went outside. Standing before him was a man in an aqua golf shirt. Curled inside the shooting glove on his right hand was a .45 automatic. He patted Serge on the shoulder as he hurried inside. “Might want to close that door.”

Brook pointed. “That’s the guy I told you about. Reading newspapers and following me. I wasn’t imagining things.”

“Who are you?” said Serge.

“Explain later. Right now we need to work fast.” He handed Brook the gun—“Hold this”—then he grabbed one edge of the plastic sheet. “Serge, give me a hand. I’m guessing you know your way around this neighborhood.”

Serge didn’t move. “I need to know who I’m dealing with before we go any farther.”

“Okay.” The man let go of the sheet and stood up. “Name’s Clint Racine. Brook’s law firm sent me to watch out for her.”

“That’s why I thought I was being followed,” said Brook.

“Because you were,” said Clint.

“So you work for her firm?” asked Serge.

“Not exactly,” said Clint. “They hired a private investigations company who hired me. That way they’d have a buffer of deniability on the off chance that their suspicions were correct—which they were—and things got messy.” He looked down. “Which they have.”